Thanks to Madison Woods as usual for organising us – she’s been away recently, but I hope she’s back joining in with the writing part this week. Also thanks to Piya Singh for the gorgeous photo. I was right back in the UK with this one.
As ever, I’d love to hear what you think.
Grandpa used to bring me here and tell me about the giant who dragged this truck to market. It wasn’t a cottage then, but a giant’s cart, with huge wheels on either side. When the giant died, the hills grew up around the cart until only one wheel was left exposed. That’s why it’s at the wrong angle to the water. See?
Now the hills are growing up around Grandpa; leaving only memories exposed. I want to pass them on to you, so that you know how great he was, and don’t just see the ruins of a badly-designed watermill.
It’s Friday! And that means another picture from Madison Woods and another story from me.
Blimps and Balloons
Lying on the grass at the airfield, Billy looked up at the barrage balloon above his head. Of course, it wasn’t a barrage balloon any more. This one was advertising – he squinted through thick glasses – tyres, and carried none of the threat of a barrage balloon. Although raised to keep the city safe, they’d always served as a reminder for him of the dangers inherent in staying in London. But Dad hadn’t let him go to the country with his sisters, so he’d stayed behind and watched the explosive flying beasts above guarding him from explosive falling bombs from France.
As ever, thank you to Madison Woods for the pictorial inspiration, although this week I should also thank Mary Shipman who submitted the photo. You can see their stories, and the responses of the other fictioneers, in the comments to Madison’s post: http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/
Here’s mine – As ever, I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments.
I haven’t seen that paper since I was a child. Bright orange marigolds covered white walls then; both are yellowing now, behind years of paper and paint.
“Children see things in black and white,” my Grandpa used to say, “The agony of a playground fall, the ecstasy of Christmas morning.” But he meant the opposite: children see things in vivid technicolour, in contrasting extremes.
It’s only as adults that we’re imprisoned by shades of grey. We feel neither fear nor delight unadulterated, because life and experience have taught us that nothing is permanent.
Not even orange marigolds and white walls.
Thanks to Madison Woods for another intriguing photo. You can see her site and the other Fictioneers’ responses here: http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/flash-fiction/cellar-walls-100-words/
I wanted to do something with that strange shape above the entrance, but I got carried away with the story I was writing and never had space to fit it in. It looks like a baseball mitt? Or a musical instrument? Or a bit of tree? I’m sure my MC would have plenty to say about it, but I only gave him 100 words and he never got there. Here’s what he did say. (Please feel very welcome to leave comments and criticism, I’d love to hear from you, good or bad.)
Crawling into the old cellar is like travelling back in time. I remember blistering summers, baking beneath the tin roof and icy winters, the wind stabbing us through the walls. Everything’s magnified by memory, including the space itself. Four boys could comfortably sit playing cards and drinking beer snatched from our fathers’ cupboards, and planning our escape from our parents’ world.
Now, the cellar is only a few feet from the back door of the house. Now, my mother could have seen us from the kitchen window. Now, it’s barely big enough to hold four boys, let alone their dreams.